


Vedmach’ya Kolybel'naya

by BlueNeutrino



Series: Heart of a Witcher [11]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Gen, Headcanon, Song Lyrics, baby Geralt, this was very bittersweet to write, very bad Russian i'm sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 06:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15702054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/pseuds/BlueNeutrino
Summary: Visenna knew she never had a choice but to give Geralt up. AKA a sorceress sings a Russian lullaby to her son.





	Vedmach’ya Kolybel'naya

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was inspired by a Russian folk song Kazach'ya Kolybel'naya (Cossack Lullaby), specifically, a version sung by Natalia Faustova that can be found on YouTube (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJsTB-yB-uk), and also partly by the portrayal of Visenna in the 2001 Polish Witcher TV series.
> 
> The title Vedmach’ya Kolybel'naya means (I hope) Witcher's Lullaby, with Ved'mak being the (phonetic) title of the Witcher series in Russian. I do not speak Russian, so my grammar may well be terrible in the parts of the lyrics I've attempted to rewrite, though I have used a translation from russmus. net for guidance. I've also included what I believe to be the most contextually accurate English translation of the lyrics in the fic.
> 
> I've requested help from a Russian beta and am just waiting to see if they agree to it.
> 
> EDIT: Thank you to direSin, who isn't the beta I had in mind but has been an enormous help!
> 
> This is also based on a personal headcanon as to why Visenna would choose to give Geralt up, though I haven't read any of the extra materials Sapkowski released about her.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the Witcher. Some translations from russmus. net and mamalisa .com. All lyrics not written by me are in the public domain.

The boy won't settle. He whines, cries, squirms in the cloth sling that binds him tight to her breast, and Visenna doesn't know what to do. Despite the layers of wool and furs she's wrapped around them both, the protective spells she's cast to try to stave off the weather, the deeper they ride into the Blue Mountains, the colder it gets. He doesn't like it and makes that fact well known with screams and cries and wails that tear at her heart.

It amazes her how he even has the strength to protest so loudly. Amazes her more that she even has a child—small and weak and vulnerable and entirely _hers_ —here at all.

Her magic ought to have rendered her sterile. She shouldn't have been able to bring a new life into the world. From the weakness of his first struggling breath and the blue tinge to his skin, she knows she almost hadn't. That first time she'd held him, daring to listen closely, a stumbling heart and feeble lungs had greeted her ears, and for all her healing magic, there was nothing she could do.

Visenna has delivered many children. She's saved many from the brink of death when they'd emerged from the womb silent and blue, yet her own son she's failed. Magic can't help when it was her magic that hurt him in the first place.

There's only one way he'll even have a chance at surviving into adulthood, and as much as it pains her, she doesn't have a choice.

"Shh," Visenna mutters, trying to soothe the crying child. She knows he's suffering, and it makes her own heart ache.

There'll be worse to come.

Above the howling of the wind, a melody comes into her head: one she's heard countless mothers sing cradling their newborn babes. She rocks him as gently as she's able in the saddle and softly begins to sing.

"S _pi, mladenets moy prekrasnyy,_  
_Bayushki bayu._  
_Tikho smotrit mesyats yasnyy_  
_V kolybel' tvoyu._

 _Stanu skazyvat' ya skazki,_  
_Pesenku spoyu;_  
_Ty zh dremli, zakryvshi glazki,_  
_Bayushki bayu._ "

 **Sleep, little boy, my beautiful,**  
**Hushabye-a-bye.**  
**Quietly the moon looks**  
**Into your cradle.**

 **I will tell you fairy tales**  
**And sing you little songs,**  
**But you must slumber, with your little eyes closed,**  
**Hushabye-a-bye.**

The child yawns and, for a moment, quiets, and she wonders if her voice has comforted him or he's simply exhausted himself. Then he gives another anguished moan and resumes crying and drooling into her chest.

He seems to seek out the warmth of it, even though she's never given him much reason to associate it with food or safety. She hadn't even been able to nurse. The crushing devastation that had settled over her as she realised she could produce little milk and what there was he'd spat out in disgust had felt like a knife in her heart. She can't give him what he needs.

Visenna sighs, helpless, and realises she doesn't know any more of the words. Not that it really matters. One thing she can give him is her voice and new words of her own.

" _Ty uznaesh', budet vremya,_  
_Vedmach’yego puti;_  
_Smelo budesh ty srazhatsya_  
_E delat' znaki._ "

 **Soon you will learn**  
**The Witcher's Path;**  
**Boldly you will fight**  
**And make the Signs.**

Visenna hums softly, and the baby begins to settle again, the sweet, slightly smoky tones of her voice drowing out the howl of the wind.

She could have spared him the ordeal of an icy Kaedweni winter if only she'd conjured a portal, yet when she'd considered it—imagined sending her baby through that cold, dark nothing space between one end of the portal and the other—she couldn't bear the thought.

Difficult though the journey may be, it's better like this.

Visenna keeps one hand on the reins and the other comes up to tuck the woollen shawl tighter around the child. She can't help but stare at his face, marvelling at the delicate features of him, and already she knows he'll resemble her. The faint fuzz patchily covering his scalp is already deep red and his eyes a stunning blue. He'll grow up to be quite handsome, she imagines. Not that she anticipates ever finding out.

Visenna bows her head to press a tender kiss to her child's forehead and continues to sing.

" _Kaer Morhen, ved'machiy zamok_  
 _Tebya priyutit._  
_Spi, moy mal'chik, moy rebenok,_  
_Bayushki-bayu._ "

 **Kaer Morhen, the Witcher's Castle**  
**Will shelter you.**  
**Sleep, my little boy, my child,**  
**Hushabye-a-bye.**

Gradually, the baby begins to settle, and soon he's fast asleep against her.

As they come upon the keep, she realises they're being watched from higher up the mountainside by a wolf in the snow. The horse spooks slightly and Visenna calms it, reading to throw a ball of fire at the creature should it try to attack, but all it does is watch for a few moments later then scamper away in the direction of the castle.

She doesn't see it again until they arrive at the gate where a Witcher is waiting for them. Apparently, the wolf had alerted them to a rare visitor.

"Vesemir," Visenna greets, recognising him by the greying hair and slightly crooked nose. 

He nods in acknowledgement as she approaches, keen eyes watching the bundle strapped to her chest. "Visenna. What brings a sorceress to the Witcher's Keep in the depths of winter?"

"I've brought you a child," she answers, dismounting from the horse and beginning to untie the sling that keeps the child secure against her. He stirs slightly as he leaves the warmth of her breast to be quickly swaddled in fur, but doesn't wake.

Vesemir doesn't step back as she moves closer, but his gaze remains cautious. "Yours?"

There's a pause. "Yes."

His eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn't comment on it further. "We usually invoke the Law of Surprise before asking for that. I don't believe you've incurred any such debt."

"I haven't. I'm asking this as a favour."

"Why, Visenna?"

"Because I can't be the one to raise him." She holds out the tiny, swaddled bundle to the Witcher, who hesitates a moment before reaching out to accept.

 _Budesh obladat' mechom_  
_E Ved'mach'yey dushoy,_  
_Magiyu e stal' e serebro_  
_Derzhat rukoy._

 **You will wield swords**  
**And be a Witcher in your soul.**  
**Magic and steel and silver**  
**You will hold in your hand.**

Vesemir looks down at the child in his arms.

"Visenna." There's an accusation in his voice that would make her ashamed, if she were the type to feel shame. "This child his sick. He won't survive the trials, if he even makes it that far."

He's heard it too, then: the frail stutter of the baby's heart. "The trials are the _only_ way he'll survive," Visenna says firmly. "If he doesn't take the Grasses, then maybe he'd live to thirteen or fourteen, perhaps a little longer, but certainly not into adulthood. If he undergoes the trials and they kill him, well, that's only a few years to lose. But if he survives, then he'll live for centuries. It's the only chance he has."

The Witcher looks at her with disapproval in his cat's eyes.

"Take him, Vesemir," she insists. "And take care of him. I won't be coming back."

Vesemir cradles the baby close and looks at him carefully. Visenna can't be sure, but already she thinks there's the beginnings of affection in those golden eyes.

And fear. A fear she knows all too well.

"If I do, he'll be the first child to be raised as a Witcher from infancy," Vesemir says. "Though, I suppose as a child born of a sorceress, perhaps he's destined to be unusual." He considers, thinking about Visenna's words and what might happen to the child should he refuse. Then he nods. "Alright, I'll take him. Though, I ought to know what to call him."

 _Da, gotovyas' v boy opasnyy,_  
_Vspomni mat' svoyu..._  
_Spi, mladenets moy prekrasnyy,_  
_Bayushki-bayu._

 **As you tread the Path**  
**Please remember your mother.**  
**Sleep, little boy, my beautiful,**  
**Hushabye-a-bye.**

Something strange twists in Visenna's chest that might be both anguish and relief. "Geralt," she tells Vesemir. "His name is Geralt."


End file.
